


Just in Time

by 12VelvetWhispers



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Desk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Battle of Beacon, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6322678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/12VelvetWhispers/pseuds/12VelvetWhispers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall of Beacon, even the most seasoned of huntsman and huntresses have their moments of weakness. In the wake of death, destruction, and unimaginable loss, this was all she had left to lose…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just in Time

**Author's Note:**

> I don't feel there are nearly enough Iron-Witch//Good-Wood stories out there. They are one of my favorite head-canon couples, so I was struck with some inspiration for them after the heartbreaking Volume 3 finale. R&R if you enjoy, too!

She misses him.

She will never admit it aloud, but she misses him more than she knows she should. She misses the way his laugh would fill a room unlike any other. She misses how he would always attempt to drink her under the table in their reckless academy days – the only one she knew who could succeed. 

She'll never say, but she misses the manner in which he pursued her, always trying to get her to agree to things at which she would normally scoff. He always convinced her; always such a persuasive man. 

Then there were the things that she hid away - the moments that were shrouded in shadow and bathed in secrecy. There were times that being a huntress, and professor at Beacon Academy, wore heavily upon her shoulders, and there was never a better cure than those strong, purposeful hands gliding and coasting between the planes of her back, pressing therapeutically into the tight knots along her spine. Those aura infused fingertips could pull the tension from her body with such finesse of which a man of his manner and personality should not have been capable. 

He had always been a revisionist, doing what he believed was right without a second thought about how it affected the way others viewed him. He walked his own path in life, not the ones those before him had tried to impose upon him. He had always been a revolutionary, a man with a nameless goal who had forever been trying to find his life's purpose – the pinnacle of everything right and just. 

All of the time she had known him, he had been a mountain, someone who was steadfast and unshakable. Over the years she had grown a strong and unwavering loyalty and respect for this man. He had been, and always would be, her teammate – loyal to and unfailingly protective of her. She knew that he had loved her, pined for her through the years they had worked and trained together, as well as their years apart when he had moved to Atlas to join the military. 

She knew that he had controlled himself, reining in the affection that he so longed to release and shower over her. So many times she had turned him away with an upturned chin and some colorful words of disdain. 

But even she had her weak moments.

It had been the night before he had left to return to Atlas HQ, merely a few days following the ‘Battle of Beacon’, as the press had seemed to dub it. To her, there was no appropriate name for the horrific loss that had befallen Beacon Academy and its attendants. 

He had come to her makeshift quarters at the large Schnee Dust Company warehouse the faculty and staff had commandeered for the purpose of setting up a safe-zone in the Commercial District of Vale. It had been a little past midnight, whiskey bottle in one hand, a plastic bag of ramen take-out in the other – a peace offering of sorts, perhaps a final plea to which she had fallen easy prey. 

She had been busy finishing the new tally of survivors and deceased, keeping a strict record of those who were still missing, and those who were accounted for over the few days in the wake of chaos. He had only knocked twice at her door, her curt “Come in” granting him entrance. 

She hadn’t even looked up from her work. 

He didn’t seem to mind. 

He waited patiently before her, watching her with sad, worried eyes as he, no doubt, took in her dishevelled appearance. 

Her clothing, though clean, was wrinkled, and her hair was falling in places from the normally crisp and neat twist of her modest bun. Her eyes were tired, and her shoulders sagged from fatigue and dejection. 

Those eyes on her burned holes in her resolve, and she finally discarded her pen, bracing a palm against the edge of the wobbly desk. Her free hand rose to remove her glasses, thumb and forefinger pinching firmly at the tension between her creased brows, as she sighed on a broken breath. 

She would never admit that it was she who had instigated the affair; the one who had snatched the glass bottle and bag from his hands, shoving them to the corner of her desk; the one who had thrown her arms around his tapered waist with nearly inhuman strength that only he could withstand. She'd never admit that she hadn't missed the catch of his breath, feeling a small thrill from it, even. The flush of her cheeks, for once unrelated to alcohol or heat, but a carnal need that she had spent the last few decades denying that she could experience for that mountain of a man before her. 

She couldn't deny that she had reveled in the feeling of those strong, nimble hands weaving tender patterns through her loose golden hair as he pulled the pins free from it, but she would never say the words aloud. Her own hands quickly found his face, as he stumbled to stand before her, those smooth, sculpted cheeks much softer than they looked beneath the nearly reverent contact of her fingertips. 

Those dark blue eyes slid shut beneath her ministrations – a sigh escaping those slightly parted lips, as she pressed her pale forehead to his. She didn't miss the sharp exhale of breath upon her face, those striking eyes snapping open to search her emerald orbs for an answer to the unspoken question dying to tear itself from his lips. 

Then, as if finding the answer they were hoping for, a fire ignited behind those navy eyes, slightly chapped lips fitting hesitantly against the corner of her own in a careful fashion - probably awaiting an earth-shattering rejection. Neither moved for some time, merely acclimating to the sensation of unfamiliar lips lightly pressed against their own. 

She was the one to deepen the kiss, sliding her mouth slowly against his, dragging her tongue cautiously along the seam of his mouth, seeking entrance. She was granted access with a soft groan of which she didn't think the General was even capable, another tongue stroking delicately against her own, as if afraid to press further, lest she decide to change her mind. 

But she would have none of that, pressing her body firmly against his, stroking soft thumbs along his temples, before scraping blunt, manicured nails against his scalp, hidden beneath the thick black and silver layers. A sigh escaped her own lips, as she ran her fingers through those coarse strands, exhaling against those eager lips. With a tilt of her head, she attacked his mouth, releasing the pent-up frustrations that had collected since the moment they had met. 

Strong hands grasped tightly to the crests of her hips, hoisting her up onto the edge of the shaky, yet stable, rectangular desk. 

Her knees parted to allow that solid body to press between, and their mouths dragged heatedly against one another, as if their very lives depended upon it. All of the teasing and taunting – never being able to do anything about this unrecognizable heat...it was nearly surreal in its ability to push them to their limits. 

At that very moment, all that mattered were his lips sliding with a burn against her throat, fingers working with the buttons at her waist, and filling hardness pressing firmly against her lower belly. The temperature in the room rose steadily, blurring their inhibitions, had there ever been any to begin with. 

As one callused and one gloved hand lifted her white blouse aside to meet the naked flesh of her ribs, she felt a shiver course through her. Slipping her own pale fingers into the white and blue military jacket, they moved to tangle in the black undershirt beneath the standard dress shirt. 

She knew that he had loved her from the beginning – that he had probably fantasized about her since the first stirring of hormones in his youth. She knew that his eyes had always followed her, crying out some silent plea – some unspoken wish, as he had watched her live her life without him. 

She was very aware that some line was being crossed in this moment, some unspoken boundary that was most unquestionably being shattered, but she could worry about that later. For now, dexterous hands un-clipped her cape and tugged at her black skirt, lifting her marginally from the desk to be rid of the garment by shoving it up over her hips to bunch below her heaving breasts. 

Hot lips parted, a trained tongue flicking dangerously along the curve of her throat, and she tightened one fist in his thick hair. His jacket fell to the floor, her other hand finding its way past the pearl-snap buttons of his dress-shirt to the soft cotton beneath. Her fingers wasted no time in shoving the garment aside as well, determined to feel that hot, hard torso beneath her frantic fingers. 

This man was her weakness, a sensitive subject that was guarded and kept hidden with consistent vigilance. 

Their lips folded over each other's once more, and Glynda leaned into the kiss, pressing her mouth a little more insistently against his. She felt those lips curve against her own, before they parted their mouths simultaneously, tongues flicking out to slide hotly against one another. She felt a shiver race down her spine, and almost pulled away in surprise at the terrifyingly overwhelming sensations. 

Lips moved to press gently to the pulse point on her throat, nuzzling tenderly against the soft flesh they found there. 

Her hands wandered over broad shoulders restlessly, as if she didn't know what to do with them, before finally fisting them in the dark fabric of his undershirt once more. Her fingers tore through the thin weaving to expose those hardened muscles and polished titanium. 

Glynda's groans sounded wanton to her own ears, spilling past her lips, as blunt teeth grazed the junction between her neck and shoulder. Those same teeth dragged across her throat, nipping at the opposite earlobe before drawing it into his mouth. Shivers erupted from her spine, pushing her body more tightly against his own. Burying her face against his temple to muffle her sounds of sensation, she denied him the satisfaction of the spoils of his hard-earned work. 

"Don't you dare, Glynda."

The words were rasped, hot against her ear, heat washing over her neck as she jerked slightly. His right hand had found its way between her thighs, stroking softly against the outer folds of her aching womanhood through her thin tights. Meanwhile, his mouth dipped low to press a hot kiss to her collarbone through the keyhole in her blouse, and his other hand seemed to make her forget everything that mattered. She wasn't a professor, or a huntress, or the woman that was allowing the man she loved to walk away. 

She was just a woman in the arms of a man that had cared for her since the day they had met at Signal Academy when they were merely nine and twelve years old. 

She knew that she was still making those soft noises, but at this point she couldn't have cared less, because his metallic hand was tearing at the nylon of her black tights, pulling the ruined fabric away from her pale thighs. A trouser-clad, titanium hip knocked her knees apart, allowing one finger to dip and curve within her womanhood. 

She had to demand more. 

Her heat pulsed with the accelerated beat of her heart, and she was so tempted to force him into submission, but that would mean removing her hands from the hot, soft skin, and she just couldn't do that at the time. 

Every subtle movement of his fingers unleashed a heat that she hadn't thought she was capable of feeling again, since the first man she had been with; a man who was long dead and gone. Her first love had been a sweet and gentle lover, always taking care of her, but she currently had no desire for that form of treatment. She also knew that James wasn't capable of that kind of softness, and that was completely alright with her. 

As a second finger joined the first, a third face flashed in her mind. This one was of pale flesh and silver hair, hazel eyes shimmering in some nonexistent moonlight. This face belonged to the one she thought she had loved. In truth, she _had_ loved him, but he had never returned the sentiment. They had merely used one another and, at the time, that had been...completely alright – expected, even.

But she couldn't think about Ozpin right now; couldn't remember the harsh manner in which they had fucked in their late teenage years. His tongue and fingers and manhood in places she still burned inside to recall, and with intentions that she begged to forget. 

But this was James Ironwood, and she owed it to him to form no comparison. So, compare she would not. 

If she closed her eyes, she could pretend that he wasn't leaving with the dawn; that he wasn't going away for an indeterminate amount of time. She could make herself believe that he would always be here, in her arms, and eventually inside of her. 

_Gods, enough with the thinking..._

The truth was that she never wanted there to be things that she wished she had known about the man before her. She didn't want him to go, and possibly, _probably_ , never come back; leaving her with a pile of regrets the height of the destroyed CCT tower in ruined Beacon. 

So she wouldn't...she would learn all of those things about him. She would learn that his scalp was one big erogenous zone, especially when she twisted her hands just so and tugged at the base of those greying roots – evoking a sharp hiss from between those flat teeth.

She would soon find that he was slightly ticklish just below his final rib on the left side, as her hands skated to that exact location when peeling the undershirt from his torso. She would also learn that tickling was, apparently, a turn-on for him, as well... 

She would quickly know that three of his fingers, plunged deeply into her body, as a metallic palm caressed her tailbone, were creators of one of the most heavenly feelings in the world – only enhanced by that hot mouth on her throat once more. 

She was rapidly enlightened to the fact that his manhood was rigid in her palm, and that he probably had more length to gain as the process continued to unfold. She could only imagine what it would feel like shoved inside of her, replacing those skilled fingers that were rubbing electric places within her. 

The man gasped into her hair, breathless and trembling as she tightened her hold on his arousal, her long-fingered hand pulling at his wrist to tug the questing fingers free from her heat. His reactions were breathtaking, the way he responded to her touches making her blood burn with impatience. If she hadn't been burning so badly with lust herself, she would have taken her time doing just that, so that she could see him fall apart before her. 

"I've wanted you so badly...for so long..."

The words were husky and breathless, shockingly scorching against her ear, as damp fingers rested on the back of her right knee, shoving it upward to make more room for his body between them. Her other leg wrapped frantically about his hip, positioning herself as he slowly sank into her tight heat. 

A soft groan escaped her lips at the sensation of being too full, yet desperately needing that ridiculous friction that would set her body aflame. 

His mouth fell open beside her own, a choked sound pulled forth, as she kissed the point of a faint scar that ended just below his lips. 

As he began to move, she was vaguely aware that she was probably groaning and sighing a bit too loudly, but he was growling words she couldn't even begin comprehend, into the shell of her ear, hot breath misting against the pale flesh. Her fingers gripped tightly to his waist, slipping slightly against the light sheen of sweat in their desperation. Her blunt nails drug frantically at the muscled flesh, her eyes squeezing shut, as her fingers took in every minute detail, logging it away to create a memory that could never be erased. 

His hot lips brushed against her cheekbone as if it was the only thing he could manage at the moment. Their breath mingled in short pants and gasps, and suddenly, their eyes met for one intense moment. An unspoken plea was understood somehow, through the haze of lust: _Please...?_

Her gasps and pants became louder as he began to roll his hips slowly against her own, leaving her a whimpering mess, clinging to broad shoulders for purchase. 

"Oh, fu-," was the sharp gasp that escaped her slack lips, as she threw her head back against the sensation, causing the General to look down in soft surprise, speeding his pace marginally. 

One pale calf dug into his lower back, making him nearly growl in hunger for the rare submission that the normally prim and proper huntress was finally letting show that night. She did her best to contain the whimpers and groans, but then something he did made her blood run cold. It was something that ultimately made her forget all worries and concentrate solely on the way he was expertly fucking her down into the polished wood of the desk with the force of all the years they had been apart – three, broken words.

"I love you..."

Glynda arched her back against his thrusts and choked on a whimper, moving to rake blunt nails down his broad, trembling back. She could sense herself creeping agonizingly close to her end, the pressure building with each powerful, overwhelming rock of his hips against her own. 

It was that mixture of too rough and too deep that brought Glynda quickly to an unexpectedly blinding climax, her thighs closing about his waist and her womanhood clenching around him like a vice. Her eyes pressed shut tightly, and her fingers dug harshly into the swell of muscles at his shoulders. Her breath escaped her in a shattered, choking sob, as she felt the wave crash over her like a blanket of icy fire. 

Her body finally began to relax, as James groaned against her cheek at her startling reactions. He continued to rock into her, pulling a soft gasp from her at the over-stimulation. 

Glynda wrapped her legs tightly around the dark-haired man’s waist, gripping both sides of that now flushed face between her hands, and brushing their noses together.

James groaned, grinding his hips down once more, before a strangled gasp tore from his throat. His body jerked and tightened, as he released himself within that willing and welcoming body. Her pale legs slid to dangle off of the edge of the desk on either side of those slowing hips, soft lips brushing gently against his sweat-slicked forehead.

As the General began to withdraw slowly, he didn't miss the small wince that Glynda tried to hide, but just wasn't quick enough. 

The second that the tell-tale hint of guilt began to show on the dark-haired man’s face, slender arms wrapped tightly around his neck, pulling him flush against her wildly beating heart. Her legs wound once more around the narrow waist to shove him back inside of her still-pulsing heat. 

Tightening her twitching muscles around the still-firm length, coaxing it back to full hardness, Glynda soaked in that soft gasp of shock. 

"Don't..." was the her rough whisper against a flushed, sensitive ear, "...don't you dare regret this. I'm okay. I’ll always be okay with you..."


End file.
